A spiritual guide to Manhattan

Whole Earth Review, Wntr, 1989 by Sparrow

Luckily, the guards flirt and drink coffee all day, so they didn't chase me. And the white marble warms slightly to the ass after a while.

The place is the shape of a German WW1 helmet -- round with a tip -- and the roundness holds a good silence: but the tip collects ideas and keeps them from moving freely. I thought at times I could feel the heavy sensation of a man who lived behind a beard his whole life, and drank, and told many thousands to die, and had to be President, but it may've just been me.

Finishing my guru puja, I looked at Sherman. He seemed angry and vexed -- because he's in real hell now and finds that war was not so bad?

I met a black actor upstairs, and we conversed.

-- Grant's quite photogenic, he said.

-- I wonder what he'd look like without his beard.

-- There's something in there. He shaved so his wife could have his picture taken.

I looked in the room he pointed to -- and there was Grant with the center of his beard removed. He was utterly unrecognizable. This man we all think we know -- we don't know him, we know his beard.

THE UNITED NATIONS

46th St. and First Avenue

On the plaza you pass a sculpture of a gun with its barrel tied in a knot: "Gift of Luxembourg 1988."

Well, Luxembourg would be against war.

And the great neon Pepsi Cola sign across the river. ("Isn't there a committee to preserve the sign as part of our national heritage?")

Thru the metal detector I went.

-- Is it possible to use the meditation room? I asked an INFORMATION woman resembling Mary Tyler Moore.

-- No, it's indefinitely closed.

-- Why is that?

--Not enough security

An ironic answer, I thought.

On my way to the MEN/MESSIEURS room I passed a paper ball for 50 cents.

-- Where are these from?

"Tokyo," an old woman with a sari said tenderly.

It's like Startrek here, I thought -- so international.

Beside a moon rock (from Apollo 14) in the lobby, I saw myself rise into the air, grinning, behind a desk -- like in Son Of Flubber.

("Oh, I forgot to look for that rug -- the Persian carpet that so impressed me in 5th grade -- when the guide told our class, 'There is one mistake here, deliberately, because Muslims believe only God is perfect.'"

I wish I'd spent my life looking for that mistake.)

APOLLO MEDICA OFFICE

379 W. 125th St. (Harlem)

Walking 125th St., I pondered where to meditate.

Rogers Variety Candy Gum (409) looked good -- full of old men sitting at tables or standing with canes. I knocked at the door.

"What do you want?" the man nearest the door asked.

"I want to buy a soda."

-- No no no he said, closing the door.

So when I peered in this "medical office," past a puddle on the floor, to see a narrow hall with 4 broken seats, I walked in.

A blonde woman and a black man were talking like they just woke up.

-- Are you waiting for the Dr.?, a third patient asked me.

-- No, I just want to . . . hang out.

-- Sit down and be cool, he suggested.

I did. Lots of people came in, trying to give blood or use the toilet, but the toilet was broken ("Can I use your bathroom?"/"It will be fixed on Monday."/"Can I pee in your sink?") And when no one was there, the medical personnel -- all Indians -- argued in English. Eyes closed, I felt someone right in front of me staring, hard. Or a bomb about to ignite.